Missed.
He jammed the knife into his belt and used his freed hand to jerk the big cat away from John. The one with darker fur. The one who had made itself look like the Brent brothers. It spun on Duncan and let out a roar, but its hateful yellow cat eyes fixed on the chain and necklace. It looked like it wanted to rip out Duncan’s throat, but it didn’t so much as raise a clawed hand to take action.
Duncan lifted his good arm. His face was on fire. His head throbbed. His busted arm felt like it had swords sticking through the bone. He couldn’t see shit. Could barely hear anything except the gut-sickening sounds of animals in a feeding frenzy. With what little strength he still had, Duncan punched the tiger-thing right in its blood-streaked nose.
The repelling force shoved him backward. He hit the concrete, and that’s when the real hallucinations started.
As he rolled to his back, a bunch of women dressed in black leather bodysuits leaped over him.
The women had swords.
And daggers.
And something that looked like a dart gun.
One of them was on fire.
Then everything was on fire in Duncan’s mind.
I’m history
.
He thought the visions in leather were fighting off the cat-things. Lots of shouting. Lots of swearing. The stink of burned hair—or was it fur?
“I think I got one.”
“Shit, then get this one!”
“At the river, Andy! The big one’s getting away.”
“Move, Camille!”
“Sorry. Sorry.”
The earth shook. Wind howled over Duncan’s head.
The sounds and burning and shaking and all the weird shit was moving away from him. He rolled over and puked, then used his good arm to drag himself toward John Cole.
It took seconds. Then minutes.
Outside the warehouse, water splashed like some freak-ass tidal wave had just come down the East River.
Duncan reached Cole.
He turned his head and puked again.
The man was torn wide open. Guts everywhere. Limbs chewed. Not breathing. Eyes staring—yet blinking. Somehow blinking.
“John?” Duncan’s question came out hoarse, nothing but a whisper.
The brutalized, dying man managed to look Duncan right in the face.
Everything faded away. The strange crap in Afghanistan. The years of no contact. The murders. All of it. In that instant, nothing in the universe mattered more to Duncan than helping his friend.
He held his bad arm against his badge and that necklace and used his good hand to press against one of the wounds on John’s neck. “Don’t die. Hey. You hear me?”
John made no response. Of course he didn’t. How could he? Logic warred with reality in Duncan’s brain, and his consciousness starting swirling and lurching.
Then John blinked. Once. Twice.
He was still alive.
“Don’t you die.” Duncan’s messed-up perceptions heard the voice of a little boy from Georgia, a younger version of himself, calling out to this torn husk of a human being on the warehouse floor. Blood spread around them in a black, hot pool. Oozing. Not pumping. All the works were shutting down.
Everything inside Duncan balled up like a fist as he focused his will and belief in miracles in that total way only little boys could achieve. “Damnit, John,
stay with me.
”
Sorry
, John mouthed.
Then his eyes widened, and he went still.
The necklace under Duncan’s bad arm tingled.
A blast of lightning hit him full force in the forehead, and he crashed backward. More pain. Agony now. His neck. His arm. His back. His heart.
John’s knife vibrated, then seemed to melt away from his belt.
Energy
.
Too much—
What the hell was that?
But it didn’t matter.
Whatever was happening, maybe it would kill him, and maybe it should, because John Cole was dead. His friend was ripped open and bloodless, and those green eyes were empty now, forever.
“John!”
Did he yell that name?
Duncan couldn’t be sure.
He wished he could tear apart the warehouse with his bare hands, find those tiger-things, and start on them next.
Rakshasa
.
The word blared through Duncan’s mind like somebody shouted it through a megaphone.
Rakshasa. The Unrighteous. That’s what they are, Duncan. Murdering, evil demons called Rakshasa
.
A megaphone in his brain … speaking in the voice of John Cole?
You asked me to stay. Here I am
.
A thunderstorm broke across Duncan’s awareness. Lots of crashing and raining and blue-white flares of hurt and misery. He shoved his good hand against the side of his head and managed to roll away from John’s corpse.
Sounds and voices rose from every direction.
Duncan couldn’t tell what was happening inside his body and what was happening in the world. The world that had gone completely insane.
He rolled into something solid and lost the little bit of air he had left.
Legs.
Legs clad in leather.
“Did we kill any of them?”
“I don’t think so, but we cut the hell out of one of them.”
“Good.”
As Duncan once more collapsed on his back, a woman said, “Damn, Bela, he’s got head and neck wounds and a broken arm—and look at how those cuts are swelling on his neck—they go all the way to his chest!”
Okay, that sounded halfway normal. When Duncan heard the woman who’d just spoken talking on her phone or radio or whatever, he had no doubt she was an officer. The inflection, the jargon, the way she reported their position—definitely law enforcement.
He turned his head to his left even though his neck nearly cracked from the effort.
An officer in a black leather bodysuit complete with face mask, talking on a pink cell phone and carrying some kind of dart gun?
The woman standing next to the cop, the one with the big honking scimitar sword, had her face mask off, and she was on fire. Like, everywhere. And the long-haired blonde beside her was holding a bunch of evil-looking three-clawed throwing knives and had wind-devils coming out of her head.
I’ve got a helluva concussion. I’m hallucinating hot women with kick-ass weapons. I even thought my dead
best friend was talking to me. At least the tiger-things are gone
.
Fingers pressed against his neck, gentle and warm.
Duncan’s attention turned to the woman touching him.
In the ever-brightening moonlight, he saw long dark hair falling in loose waves, a shade that reminded him of night itself, like her black, black eyes.
“Pulse is stable,” she said in a voice so sexy it made him blink. “We need to get him back to the brownstone.”
Need’a get’im back to thah brownstone
.
Oh, yeah. Now
that
was an accent. He was good at accents, and this one was something interesting—like a mix of Bronx and European, getting more Bronx as she got worked up. Very exotic. Like the tilt of her eyes and her perfect, regal features.
A Slavic goddess, tall and athletic, sword belted at her waist, breasts pushing against her tightly zipped leather bodysuit.
Now, this was one hallucination he could get behind. Duncan let the image of the beautiful woman chase back his grief, his aches and pains, and the strangeness of everything in the warehouse. He let her fill his eyes, his senses.
Somehow through all the blood and singed hair, he caught an earthy, comforting almond scent. He wanted to lift his hand and touch her face just to see if she was real, but one of his arms was broken, and the arm that sort of worked was pinned under his side.
The woman’s graceful fingers drifted to the burning wounds on his neck, shoulder, and chest, and she stared at him so intently he thought she might bend down and brush her lips against his face.
Duncan’s entire body tensed with anticipation. Those lips would be cool and wet. He thought he might crumble to dust from the pain if he moved to kiss her back, though it might be worth it to taste her, to feel this woman against him a single time.
The goddess vision lowered her face closer, closer, until her soft, sweet breath played off his skin. She stared at him so deeply, so completely, that he had to believe she was seeing everything about him, understanding all that could be understood.
Her beautiful lips parted, and that sexy voice said, “He’s infected. We’ll have to call the Mothers.”
Damn, Duncan
, said the voice of dead John Cole, directly in the center of Duncan’s brain.
I see you still know how to impress the ladies
.
(3)
The entryway of the converted Garment District warehouse was dark and quiet as Strada held his youngest true brother in his arms. His chest crushed with disbelief at the torn tissue, at Aarif’s dark blood flowing across his fur. A pool of the liquid spread across the hardwood floor, radiating heat and light to Strada’s acute senses. Aarif’s life-force smelled of ammonia and earth, of all that was rich and natural, and it tore at Strada’s essence to see one of his pride so wounded.
“Why do you grieve?” From the doorway that led to the larger office space beyond the entryway, Tarek’s deep voice echoed against the high ceilings. “Let him pass so the healing can begin.”
The converted former warehouse had been fitted out with ultramodern décor and designed to resemble a top-level human business operation. When Strada glanced up at the true brother nearest to his own age, he thought how odd Tarek looked in tiger form, still gripping his sword in one pawed hand, against a tableau of brick walls, Renaissance prints, computers, desks, and leather chair. The desert expanse they had known for millennia seemed incredibly distant now, lost to them forever.
“Death should never be rushed,” Strada said. “Even now. Especially now.”
Tarek’s black eyes were little more than shadows against the dark golden fur of his face. He chose to stay in tiger form most of the time, even though Strada had instructed all of the Eldest to remain in the shape of their new human allies as much as possible, to give them every advantage in remaining anonymous. They had to learn the new speech, the new ways, the new world, if they were to continue to rise—but Tarek preferred more brutish methods.
“Death is inconsequential,” Tarek growled at Strada. “It is temporary! Cease Aarif’s suffering and allow him to come back to us.”
“They wounded him,” Strada snarled back, rocking Aarif and watching as the stain of blood coated his brother’s thick black fur. “Those women struck blows against us. They cut Aarif as if he had no more strength than a kitten. Each death teaches us something. I will not deny Aarif his experience, his growth.”
As if to deny the reality that humans had bested one of the Eldest in a hand-to-hand battle, that a mere four warriors—
female
warriors—had done harm to them, Tarek grumbled, “Aarif will learn, whether his death takes minutes or hours.”
Strada bared his teeth even though he couldn’t muster much volume in human form. “Honor your brother’s suffering. Aarif is in pain.”
Tarek roared so loudly that three warehouse windows cracked. He sprang forward and rammed the point of his blade directly into Aarif’s barely beating heart. “Now he is not!”
Blood sprayed, then abruptly stopped as Aarif quivered and went still in Strada’s grip.
Shock at such rank disobedience held Strada in place for the blink of a human eye. Then rage boiled through his veins, stretching muscles and tendons and bones. His heart pounded with the force of his fury, filling him with a blast of power so great his mind seemed to split as he howled. Fur erupted across his skin, white and shimmering even in the darkness, scalding him with pain as it moved. He flung Aarif’s body to the wooden floor and launched himself at Tarek, slashing before he even stopped moving.
Tarek leaped backward.
Too slow.
And not far enough.
Strada slit Tarek’s tiger throat in five places, the razor tips of his claws far more deadly than swinging swords.
The punch of claw through skin satisfied him so deeply he forgot his pain.
Tarek’s black eyes bulged. His challenge roar strangled away in his damaged throat. He gurgled as he pawed at his face and neck, but Strada hit him again and again, flaying his flesh as Strada roared his fury at Tarek’s insolence.
Throughout the five-story warehouse, the Eldest would be calming the Created, keeping them on task, training their ever-increasing numbers to carry out contracts they received. Expensive contracts, negotiated through their intermediary.
They would clean up the gore from Aarif’s death, and Tarek’s, too. Looking at the remnants of death and pain would be a lesson in strength and power, and on remaining ready for all possibilities.
White-hot battle frenzy consumed Strada. His own blood roared through his veins even as he spilled Tarek’s. “You
will
learn respect,” he shouted in the ancient language, and then in English, for any of the Created that might be listening. “No one stands against me, Tarek!”
Tarek was a brutal fighter, always thinking he was ready to challenge for pride leadership—but Tarek couldn’t match the most powerful and skilled of the Eldest. Sooner or later he would understand that. Strada absorbed a fresh, blistering rush of heat as he hammered his advantage, feeding off the glorious power of his age and knowledge and strength.
“Suffer Aarif’s pain.” Strada shredded Tarek’s arms even as the younger Rakshasa tried to cover his mutilated head. His flesh was soft, all too easy to destroy. “Know the humiliation our brother felt at the hands of those—those
females
. ”
Tarek stumbled backward between the desks and chairs, his dark blood flecking monitors and papers and keyboards. Strada advanced, striking harder with each blow. His growls echoed against the brick walls, and the sound pleased him. Pieces of Tarek’s ears, hands, and chest rained on the once-spotless floor, chunks of fur and skin. The coward tried to shift to fire form, but Strada easily used his energy to block Tarek’s attempt.
“Fall,” he instructed his brother. “Die now, fool, and get it over with.”
Near the back of the room, by the single door that separated Strada’s private office and the elevator to the upstairs quarters of the warehouse, Tarek collapsed with a weak, pitiful mewl. Strada kicked him, his energy flowing even stronger now, racing through his very being like a mad, ceaseless storm. Tarek’s ribs cracked under this fresh assault, then his arms, and finally, most satisfying of all, his spine.
The delicious snapping of bone fed Strada as surely as blood and flesh from a kill. He laughed, kicking Tarek’s limp body once more. He watched as the corpse struck his office door, leaving a dark red streak as it bounced off the wood and once more fell limp on the floor. With a trumpeting snarl of triumph, Strada left the ingrate on the floor. At least his blood wouldn’t make a permanent stain on the expensive flooring.
By the time he reached the warehouse’s entryway, Aarif had already been reborn. He was sitting up in tiger form, massaging the newly knit black fur stretching across his healing chest. “Brother,” he whispered as he came back to himself completely, then immediately and obediently shifted to human form, to obey Strada’s standing instructions.
Strada shifted to human form with him, impressed by how well Aarif managed the subtleties of pulling together elements to create human clothing appropriate to his age and youthful appearance as well as his station in the life they were creating for themselves. Slacks, a white shirt. Even well-made leather shoes. Aarif looked American, perhaps with Hispanic heritage. He might have stepped out of a photograph taken at an East Coast preparatory school—which was fitting, given the number of such photos they had studied.
Strada’s natural human form was a complement to Aarif’s. An older brother, perhaps, or a father who’d had his first child very young. The blood coating Strada’s fur after his punishment of Tarek shifted away with his tiger form, leaving his gray silk business suit untouched by anything unpleasant. Strada knew he was impeccable, and he took pride in Aarif’s perfection as well.
“Welcome back to us,” he told Aarif, opening his arms.
Aarif took a step toward him, then halted and hung his head, obviously shamed. “I was defeated in battle.”
Strada’s smile felt as natural as his suit in human form. “We were surprised, little brother. Do not let it trouble you. Learn from your pain and death, and we will all move forward.”
But Aarif was troubled nonetheless, which was one of the reasons Strada approved of his youngest true brother. Aarif managed to raise his head, and his chin quivered only once before his face became a mask of determination and anger.
“It will not happen again.” Aarif’s voice grew louder with each word, a tiger-form roar laced behind each syllable. “I give you my word,
culla.
”
Culla
.
Leader. The head of the pride.
Strada’s smile widened. He enjoyed how this one never forgot who ruled him, or how to speak to his betters. “I have no doubt.”
Tarek slunk into the entryway, his rapid rebirth a testament to how many times he had died in the past. He was in human form, his business clothing poorly formed and mismatched, but Strada acknowledged that his most stubborn true brother had at least chosen to make a proper effort to follow standing orders. He did not hug Tarek to welcome him back to the pride. Tarek’s averted gaze and submissive posture were sufficient for now, despite the obvious anger rippling through his muscled human body.
“Fetch Griffen again, and have him bring the Created,” Strada instructed. “The office must be cleaned before the start of business tomorrow. We are a security firm, not a slaughterhouse.”
Tarek quickly reversed course, out of the entryway, back through the office space, and toward the elevator to the upstairs quarters, which was located at the rear of the large square room. His posture communicated even more rage at his continued humiliation. Their human intermediary and all of the Created that Griffen supervised would know whose blood and fur they were scouring from the floor, walls, and furniture. And they would know even more clearly who had won the battle between Tarek and Strada.
Strada was the first and strongest. He was the most powerful of the Rakshasa, and he had been since the universe chose to create him. It never hurt to remind Eldest and Created alike. If Tarek didn’t enjoy being the stooge of the lesson, perhaps next time he would choose not to challenge his
culla
.
Minutes later, perhaps only moments, activity filled the staircase and elevator, and Tarek, Griffen, and the Created swept quietly into the office space, cleaning supplies at the ready. Many different colors of fur and scents tickled Strada’s awareness as Griffen set the Created straight to work, and with a definite sense of pride he watched the numbers in the room swell.
Where there had been five Created, now there were dozens, too many, even, to answer his call. They were still in full possession of their reason and ability to follow commands, so conversion methods were definitely improving. Hundreds of years in limbo, with nothing but his own thoughts for company, had given Strada plenty of time to consider what might have gone wrong in the sharing of Rakshasa and human blood.
Even if these Created were still smaller than true Rakshasa, and unable to assume full human form, they were far superior to the mindless golems he had created centuries ago to fight their wars in the desert. The two nearest to him had paws, while others had pointed ears atop their heads, or patches of fur marking their skin. A few flickered back and forth between flame form and fully shaped bodies, giving them the appearance of human candles. But they were sane, sentient, and capable of learning.
Tarek broke away from the laboring crew and came to stand beside Aarif. He remained, respectfully and atypically, in his human form. Strada was impressed by his obedience, even if he knew it wouldn’t last.
“These Created do better every day.” Aarif’s angular face softened as he grinned. “I hope our true brothers across the globe are faring as well.”
Strada felt his own human-form face ease once more into a pleased expression. When they had been released from that cursed desert temple in the Valley of the Gods, Strada had divided his small family of thirty Rakshasa into groups of two and three and sent them forth.
By now, small armies of his kind would be surging through major cities on all seven modern continents. Strada was learning to use devices like computers, though electronic equipment often didn’t wish to cooperate with his kind, with their powerful energy. Still, he could use the contraptions to see that their coffers were filling. Working hard for his promised reward of immortality, Griffen had taught Strada much about banks and accounts, about how digital signals now filled air once populated by only the psychic workings of gods like the Rakshasa.
Humans were just as clever now as they had been in ancient times. Perhaps even more so—and perhaps that was why they were having more success establishing Created who didn’t go mad and require immediate extermination.
As the Created finished rendering the office space presentable once more, Griffen separated himself from the ranks and strode toward Strada, Aarif, and Tarek. His blond hair seemed to gleam in the unnatural bulb lighting, and his blue eyes were bright with the intelligence and elemental ability that had drawn Strada to him when the Rakshasa arrived in New York City. Tonight, Griffen wore jeans and a shirt he’d called a “polo” when he brought Strada his own collection of such garments.
“
Culla
, I think they’re close to ready,” Griffen said, gesturing back to the Created, who were polishing chairs, desks, and the floors. Griffen’s movements were fluid and exact, like the trained warrior Strada knew him to be.
“And your … men?” Strada had almost said
pride
, but corrected himself.
Griffen’s gaze sharpened with his cool smile, and the twinned-serpent tattoo on his forearm seemed to writhe and pulse. “The Coven is more than prepared.”
A heat rushed through Strada, anticipation mingled with his never-ceasing appreciation of the freedom he had so recently regained. Freedom to recover. To grow. To conquer once more. “We will give them a trial soon, then.” He slapped Aarif on the back, and even Tarek gave a soft growl of eagerness. “Griffen, the women who fought us earlier this day, those wicked creatures who injured my true brother—I want to know more about them.”
The shifts in Griffen’s posture and expression were subtle but easily detectable to Strada. Hatred. Hunger. Anxiety. The emotions radiated off the man until Strada could scent the tang of each separate feeling. So his human allies, Griffen and his twelve companions with their rudimentary elemental talents and their snake tattoos, had encountered these women before.